


the poets are just kids who didn't make it

by lucifucker



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but like, gratuitous descriptions of how beautiful joe trohman is, not explicit sex, sex happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's more of an errant thought than anything else, that he would take any punishment in the world, for this skinny, nineteen-year-old guitarist who smokes too much weed. </p><p>or</p><p>Andy and Joe through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the poets are just kids who didn't make it

** December, 2001 **

  
  


The first time Joe ever comes over to Andy's house, he steps inside, looking small, and jittery, and a little out of his head, and meets Andy's eyes directly as he says;

  
  


“Can I use your closet?” 

  
  


“Um?” Andy blinks, and nods, without thinking about it, pointing up the stairs to where his room is. Joe kicks off his shoes, and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and half-runs up to the second floor, immediately recognizing which door is Andy's probably because of the bigass hole in it, and making his way inside. 

  
  


By the time Andy gets upstairs, the door to his closet is ajar, and one of Joe's socked feet is poking out of it. Stripes. He walks over, and stands against the frame, looking down at the boy curled up in a ball on the floor. 

  
  


“Can I come in?” Joe shakes his head where it's between his knees. His coat's still on, and there are flecks of snow in his bleach-blonde hair, and Andy wonders if he's always been this beautiful.

  
  


“No.” Andy blinks. 

  
  


“No?”

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“It's my closet.” Joe's head shoots up, and his eyes are wide, and vulnerable, and so, so scared as he bites down _hard_ on his bottom lip.

  
  


“Sorry, I'll--” He starts trying to get up in the small space, and Andy's stomach plummets. 

  
  


“I'm kidding—hey, no, hey, I'm kidding.” He stammers, desperate to make it stop, whatever it is that's happening right now. Joe freezes where he's got his hand on the door frame pushing himself up, and slowly eases back down, knees-to-chest. “Sorry.” Andy murmurs, and Joe shrugs, and wraps his arms back around his legs, resting his chin on them. 

  
  


There's a long, long silence, where the only sound is Joe's soft breathing into his jacket and Andy's mom vacuuming downstairs. Eventually, Andy slides down wall, and sits cross-legged on the floor next to the door. He's not sure when he reaches down and rests his hand on Joe's foot where it's nudging against his leg, but when he looks over a minute later, Joe's looking at him, a little less scared and a lot more calm. 

  
  


“You okay?” Andy asks, and Joe nods, slowly, his foot shifting a little under Andy's hand, but when Andy starts to pull away he reaches out and takes it, fingers linking together. 

  
  


“Sometimes I just, like.” Joe shrugs, and Andy doesn't know what to do other than squeeze his hand. “I don't know, I hate—small spaces?” He huffs out a laugh, and swallows, and Andy raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I know, I'm in your closet, shut up. I just—I hate them, but sometimes, I like...need them, too? Like...when I'm scared, or—freaked out, or whatever.” Joe bites his lip again and looks down, and Andy nods. 

  
  


“Do I scare you?” Joe looks up, and smiles a small, sly smile that Andy thinks he's already falling in love with. 

  
  


“A little.” Andy grins, and reaches up, pushing the door open with his free hand.

  
  


“Well, we'll work on that.” He says, keeps his voice soft because that seems to be working and because the idea of Joe ever looking at him the way he did before again makes him physically ill. He stands up, tugging on Joe's hand where their fingers are still threaded, and Joe hefts himself up, not letting go. “C'mon, my mom made brownies or something.” 

  
  


The grin he gets is blinding, and perfect, and he's so fucking fucked. 

  
  


Four hours later, Joe leaves, bundles back into the giant coat that it took Andy twenty minutes to get him out of, and kisses Andy's cheek, soft, and sweet, and shy. 

  
  


“So, was this that bad?” Andy asks, and Joe shakes his head, and lets Andy tug him into a tight hug, and sure, they've only known each other for a few months, but that doesn't make it feel any less real. “Good. You should come back, soon.”

  
  


Joe nods as he pulls away, and heads out the door. 

  
  


“I will.”

  
  


  
  


** May, 2003 **

  
  


“Andy— _Andy_ , stop!” Pete's arm is tight where it's wrapped around his chest, dragging him up and away from the guy on the floor, and he can't register anything other than the blood that's now splattered over the concrete and the fact that he needs to _get away_. “Stop, hey, Hurley, hey--” Pete pulls him a few more feet back, even while he thrashes to get away, and Pete might only be an inch taller than him, but he's definitely using what little he's got to his advantage, throwing all his weight into keeping Andy still. “ _Hurley_.” 

  
  


It's harsher, this time, hissed into his ear, and Andy goes still, shoulders slumping as he stops fighting Pete, and Pete relaxes, just slightly behind him, keeling forward to press his face against the back of Andy's shoulder. 

  
  


“Andy—dude—“ Pete shakes his head, and slides his hands down, letting them rest against Andy's sides. “He's fine. He's okay. Okay? He's fine. Look.” He points to where Joe's standing a little behind Patrick, looking over his shoulder with bright blue eyes 

  
  


An hour later they're curled up in the back of the van, and Joe won't stop looking at the bandages on Andy's knuckles, keeps Andy's hands up by his face and keeps his touches feather-light over the backs of them, his eyes wide. 

  
  


“Hey.” Andy murmurs, and shifts closer, resting their foreheads together. “It's okay.”

  
  


Joe swallows, thickly, and pulls Pete's sleeping bag up over their shoulders, before going back to his inspection of Andy's hands. They're close enough that their chests are almost pressed together, their legs tangled under the covers, and Joe's hip is pressing lightly into Andy's stomach. 

  
  


“Does it hurt?” Andy shakes his head. 

  
  


“No.” Joe bites his lip, but doesn't look any less scared. Andy loops his arm around Joe's waist, and ducks his head, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. Joe's fingers settle in his hair, and Andy figures its the small victories. 

  
  


It's not the first time, even if it's the first time Joe's known, and it won't be the last time, that Andy ends up with bloody knuckles and split lips in exchange for keeping Joe safe. He shifts his head up, pressing a kiss to the side of Joe's head, and letting his nose linger in the soft brown locks for a second.

  
  


It's more of an errant thought than anything else, that he would take any punishment in the world, for this skinny, nineteen-year-old guitarist who smokes too much weed. 

  
  


  
  


** June, 2005 **

  
  


“Bear?” Andy asks, eyebrows raised, and Joe giggles, shifting onto his back and stretching his arms out over his head. He's smiling, wide, and giddy, and his pupils are blown wide, and normally Andy would object to being exposed to basically any kind of drug use, but Joe's so _happy_ , and he's pressing his face into Andy's stomach like it belongs there and Andy really can't argue.

  
  


“Yeah. Bear. Like, like, like.” Joe bites his lip, and rolls his hips, still stretching, and his shirt hikes up over his hips, revealing a sliver of pale skin that Andy wants to touch more than anything. “Like, cause, like you're kinda muscly, and scary lookin', and you...you...tattoo.” 

  
  


“I tattoo?” Joe rolls onto his stomach and reaches out, poking at the piece on Andy's side, which is still a little tender, honestly, but Andy doesn't complain. 

  
  


“You tattoo. So...so, you're a bear.” Joe looks up at Andy with his eyes wide and amazed and so fucking _blue_ , and Andy reaches down, linking their fingers together over his stomach. 

  
  


“So what does that make you?” He asks, and Joe lays his head down in Andy's lap, cheek pressed against his jeans. 

  
  


“Twink.” He mumbles, matter-of-factly, and then shakes his head. “But you can't call me that, though.” Andy laughs, in spite of himself, and lets his free hand land in Joe's hair, sliding up into his curls like it belongs there.

  
  


“Why not?”

  
  


“S'not cute.” Joe says, muffled, because he's pressed his nose into Andy's thigh. “Bear's cute. Twink's not cute.” 

  
  


“So what should I call you?” Joe picks his head up, and pauses, like he's confused, which he probably is, considering how stupid fucking high he is. 

  
  


“Joe.” He says, finally, after a long, long pause. “Just Joe.” He looks up, and meets Andy's eyes, blinks up at him for a minute. “D'you like just Joe?” 

  
  


Andy leans down, and kisses Joe's forehead, fingers carding gently through his hair. 

  
  


“Yeah. I like just Joe just fine.” Joe pushes himself up further, and Andy thinks for a second that he's going to get up, but instead he crawls into Andy's lap, straddles his hips where he's sitting with his back against the headboard, and loops his arms around Andy's neck. 

  
  


Like this, it's easy to remember that Joe's not as broad as Andy or Pete, or as thick as Patrick. There's less of him, slim hips and visible ribs, the jut of his clavicle clear at the base of his throat. Joe is, in some ways, insubstantial, Andy could wrap his arms all the way around him, could carry him with the barest of effort, and yet Joe never _seems_ small. He's short, sure, and skinny, but nothing about Joe's personality is small, and maybe that's why Andy loves him so much. 

  
  


His hands settle on Joe's sides, almost on instinct, and Joe tilts his head to the side, regarding Andy. 

  
  


“D'you love me, Bear?” He asks, and the twist of warmth in Andy's stomach says that he's definitely going to let that nickname stick. 

  
  


“Of course I love you.” He rasps, and Joe pouts, actually pouts, before shaking his head. 

  
  


“No, I mean, like...like...” He's struggling with his words, and Andy waits, patiently, because he's always patient with Joe, because he _has_ to be. Because Pete isn't, doesn't even try, and Patrick _does_ try but Patrick's got his own shit, and you can't exactly expect Dirty or Charlie to be patient with _anyone_ , so it's down to Andy to remind Joe that he doesn't have to be on top of it all the time. “Like... _love_ me.” 

  
  


Andy looks at Joe's throat, at the way it curves as it meets his shoulder, at the line of his jaw and the way his hair frames his face, just long enough, now, to reach his ears, and lets his hands drop to his sides. 

  
  


“You're high.” 

  
  


“I love you.” He's not lucid, not by a long shot, but he's focused, eyes wide, and sure, poised over Andy looking as determined as he ever does, and Andy wishes he could have done this a few hours ago when he was fucking sober. 

  
  


“Joe, we can talk about this when you're--” 

  
  


“ _No_.” Joe says emphatically, screwing his eyes shut, and shaking his head, like he's clearing it. “No, I want--” His mouth presses into a tight line, and he leans forward, resting his forehead against Andy's. “I want...tell me.” 

  
  


“Joe...” Andy trials off, and Joe shifts, bumping their noses together. Eskimo kisses. “I do.” He lets it out in one exhale, breathes it against Joe's lips and shakes his head. “I do, I love you.” 

  
  


The smile he gets makes every single thing that's taken him here worth it, and the seamless press of Joe's lips against his is like coming home for the first time. 

  
  


** February, 2006 **

  
  


There are ice crystals on the window of the bus, forming into geometric patterns that Andy wishes he could touch without destroying, and Joe's asleep, sprawled across the front lounge couch with his head in Andy's lap. 

  
  


His face is smooshed into Andy's thigh, and his arm is wrapped around Andy's legs, and he's so _relaxed_ , so perfectly lax and beautiful, and Andy loves him so much. 

  
  


It's the first time Joe's gotten more than a sparse amount of sleep since they started recording, especially since they started mastering, and he won't say anything, but Andy knows he's scared. This record is different. A lot different, and even if they don't need the money, anymore, it's still worrying, to wonder if the kids will hate it. 

  
  


As Andy reaches out to slide his fingers up into Joe's hair, stroking his thumb over his temple, Patrick walks in, letting the door fall shut with a crack behind him, and Joe twitches, but doesn't wake up, a fact Andy's eternally grateful for. He looks up, and Patrick's standing by the TV, smiling softly down at them. Andy reaches out one arm, and Patrick crawls across the foldout, sitting next to him. The bed creaks, a little, as he moves over it, and Andy can see him wince, can see the little bit of pain and humiliation in his face at the mere thought of having taken up space, and it makes his chest clench with something halfway between fury and fear. He doesn't give Patrick time to argue, just wraps his arm around his shoulders, and tugs him close, holding him tight against his side until Patrick pulls his knees up and curls into him.

  
  


His hat's off, and Andy can see the place where his hair is combed over his bald spot. Patrick's wearing a pair of jeans Pete probably bought him and a button up shirt that's about two sizes too big for him, and hangs off his shoulders like drapes. He looks good, because he always looks good, but he presses his face into Andy's chest and closes his eyes and Andy knows he doesn't believe it. 

  
  


“You okay?” Andy asks, even though he knows the answer. 

  
  


“Am now.” Patrick mumbles, and Andy squeezes him, gently. 

  
  


“They're gonna love it.” He murmurs, and watches Patrick's fingers link with Joe's where his hand is splayed haphazardly over Andy's knee. Joe's fingers twitch, and curl around Patrick's, but he doesn't move. 

  
  


“I hope so.” There's the littlest waver in Patrick's voice, and Andy shakes his head. 

  
  


“They will.” He knows he sounds overconfident, but with the record dropping tomorrow, and the number of shows they have to play, one of them has to be positive, and since Joe's asleep, Patrick's drowning in body image issues, and Pete's useless, it might as well be him. “It's incredible.”

  
  


Patrick nods, slowly, and shifts farther down, laying with his head next to Joe's on Andy's thigh. 

  
  


He falls asleep like that, and Andy follows soon after, the sounds of two sets of heavy breathing mixed with the peaceful way the snow falls onto the ground outside too much for him. 

  
  


When he wakes up, an hour later, the bed is sagging a little, and he looks up to see Pete curled up between Joe and Patrick, with his head on Joe's chest, and his legs tangled with Patrick's. 

  
  


Andy's smiling as he falls back asleep. 

  
  


** August, 2008 **

  
  


Joe's listening to The Smiths.

  
  


Okay, no. Joe's always listening to The Smiths. Joe is in an almost perpetual state of listening to The Smiths. Joe lives, breathes, and exudes The Smiths on a daily basis, and Andy's pretty sure that if he could, Joe would _be_ The Smiths. Not, like, in the band, just a physical manifestation of their music. 

  
  


So, to be more specific, Joe is listening to Asleep. On repeat. 

  
  


Which is bad. Listening to Asleep on repeat has never meant mental stability for anyone, ever. Andy's not even that big of a Smiths fan, and he knows that. 

  
  


He steps up onto the JoePete bus, and hears it, emanating from the back room like a funeral dirge, and bites his lip. 

  
  


Joe's on the back bed, curled up under the comforter with his head sandwiched between two pillows, and his laptop open next to him playing the song for what Andy can only assume is the hundred thousandth time. It's a natural movement, to kick off his shoes, and crawl into the bed, ignoring the soft sounds of protest Joe makes when he slides under the covers.

  
  


Andy wraps his arms around his waist, and Joe shuffles closer, pressing his nose into the crook of his neck. His hair isn't exactly clean, which is telling in and of itself, and as Andy runs his fingers through it it's clear it hasn't been brushed today, either. 

  
  


“What's wrong?” He murmurs, keeps his voice soft as soft as he can in spite of the anxiety trying to claw open his chest, and Joe shrugs. 

  
  


“Fight with Patrick.” He mumbles, and Andy closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, because whatever Patrick said must have been real fucking shitty, and Andy _hates_ this. He ducks down, pressing a kiss to the top of Joe's head, and waits. Joe's breathing isn't shaky, so he hasn't been crying, which is something, but his fingers are curled tight in Andy's shirt, with a kind of ferocity he just...hasn't had, lately. “He—I don't know if—he doesn't...want me, there. He doesn't want me writing, and I don't--” Joe breaks off, and shakes his head, and Andy wants to _scream_. 

  
  


It's a lot of effort, not to get angry right now, and Andy has to clench his jaw against the temptation to shout Patrick's name, get out of bed and hunt him down and _beat_ whatever this is out of him, because Joe _belongs_ with them in the studio, Joe's just as much of the musician Patrick is, and he deserves a chance to write for this band, to be a _part_ of this band. 

  
  


But he can't. So he doesn't. 

  
  


Instead, he presses his nose into Joe's hair, and curls his fingers tightly into it, holding him as close and as secure as he possibly can while Morrissey weaves thinly veiled metaphors for depression into lines about singing him to sleep. 

  
  


“I love you.” He whispers, like that'll fix anything, and Joe picks his head up, and kisses him, long, and slow, and a little scratchy because of the fucking beard, but Andy doesn't whine about it. Not today. 

  
  


Today, he tugs Joe's head back by his hair and licks a stripe up his neck, stopping by his adams apple to sink his teeth in, just a little, and Joe arches up against him, hopefully not thinking about Patrick, like, at all, now. 

  
  


Joe hands slide down Andy's back, broad, and warm, and slip up under his shirt to splay over his sides, holding him close like he's afraid Andy will disappear. 

  
  


Andy promises himself, right then and there, that he will never, ever disappear. 

  
  


He loses track of when they lose their shirts, of when he reaches for Joe's belt, slips his jeans down over his hips, and theres a little more there, now, a little extra pudge around Joe's middle that Andy knows he hates, but he leans down all the same and kisses his way across Joe's sides and down, toward the waistband of his boxers. 

  
  


Joe's fingers curl in his hair and he's breathing, hard, but he stops, abruptly, and reaches for his laptop. Andy pushes up on his elbows, and glowers at him. 

  
  


“Seriously.” Joe flicks his ear. 

  
  


“I am not letting you fuck me to Asleep. It's depressing.” He says, matter-of-factly, scrolling through his iTunes library with a kind of unfocused attentiveness. “And creepy.” He adds, as he clicks something, and soft guitars start to drift out into the room, layered on top of one another. 

  
  


“Please, Please, Please?” Andy quirks an eyebrow. “Really?” Joe grins, and something in Andy's stomach flutters. 

  
  


“Classic Smiths, baby.” He purrs, and sits up, sliding his hands down over Andy's ribs and tugging until he can kiss him, again. “This shit was made for making love.” Andy pinches him, and Joe laughs, and it feels like the sun is shining, again. 

  
  


They end up with Andy on top of Joe, fucking into him slow, and steady, and Joe wraps his legs around Andy's waist and curls his body in so he can kiss him, fingertips pressing little bruises into Andy's back and neck, begging him with everything but his words to _stay_. 

  
  


Andy comes first, because Andy always comes first, but stays inside Joe, jerking him off in swift, slick strokes, foreheads pressed together and mouths close but not kissing and Joe comes whimpering Andy's name against his cheek like a prayer. 

  
  


Andy pulls out, and kisses Joe, soft, and sweet, and gentle as ever, before he gets up and goes to the tiny bathroom, wetting a washcloth and bringing it back with him. He wipes the come off Joe's stomach, and from between his thighs, and Joe watches him, silently, occasionally brushing his fingertips over Andy's hair where he's tied it back in a ponytail. 

  
  


When he figures he's done, he looks up, and Joe nods his confirmation before Andy wipes himself off, and tosses the cloth back into the bathroom. 

  
  


He sits there, for a minute, on his knees, looking down at Joe, with his hair in a wild halo out around his head, and his eyes still alert, looking up at Andy like he's waiting for something, Andy doesn't know what. In lieu of asking, he leans down, with his hands on either side of Joe's shoulders, and kisses him, again, lowering down until their chests are pressed together and their legs are intertwined. 

  
  


They fall asleep like that, with Andy's face pressed into the crook of Joe's neck, having shifted onto their sides, arms wrapped around each other like if they get close enough, nothing will hurt them.

  
  


Andy wonders, sometimes, if that's true. 

  
  


–

  
  


Bus call is at fucking ass-o’clock the next morning, and Andy rolls out of bed first when the alarm goes off, haphazardly pulling the covers up around Joe to keep him warm because it’s basically freezing out. He pulls on his FC sweatshirt and relishes in the fuzzy inside while he shuffles slowly out toward the kitchenette, eyes fixed on the coffee machine. 

  
  


Standing in front of it while the water boils, he gets a little lost in the way the pre-dawn light dances over the countertop, and follows the path of a crack in the linoleum from the edge of the sink to the place where the counter meets the refrigerator with his eyes, caught in that mechanical place between sleeping and waking that Joe sometimes calls “straight-edge stoned”.

  
  


Joe, who stumbles out of the back room five minutes later, with Andy still staring intently at the counter, and presses up behind him, burying his face in Andy’s neck, and sliding his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie to link their fingers together. 

  
  


“Mornin’, bear.” He mumbles into the soft fabric, and Andy murmurs something vaguely resembling ‘morning’ but he’s still too lost in his headspace to coherently form words. 

  
  


It scares him, sometimes, when this happens. When he’s so fixated on something small, and insignificant, like a crack in the counter, and he’s not upset that it’s there, but he can’t tear his eyes away from it. It’s like there's this wall between him, and this crack, and then the rest of the world, and he can’t escape, and it’s not exactly terrifying, but it’s not comforting either. 

  
  


He doesn’t notice that Joe’s moved until his fingers are tugging the hood of Andy’s sweater, letting it fall back off his head, and then he’s pressing his lips against the side of Andy’s neck, trailing soft, wet kisses down over his jaw, and without thinking about it, Andy turns his head and catches Joe’s mouth with his own. 

  
  


It’s slow, and sweet, and it eases Andy out of his own head at exactly the right pace, lets him become gently enraptured by the taste of Joe’s toothpaste and the feeling of his fingers pressing lightly against Andy’s collarbone. 

  
  


Joe pulls back and he’s smiling sleepily, nudging Andy’s cheek with his nose. 

  
  


“ Your mouth tastes like a dead rat.” He murmurs lovingly, before slipping away toward the fridge. 

  
  


Andy has just enough mental wherewithal to haphazardly swat his ass as he bends down to reach the hot pockets. 

  
  


** May, 2009 **

  
  


“So Pete and I have been talking.” Joe says as Andy walks into their hotel room, and he stops, dropping his bag by the door. Joe's sitting on the bed, cross-legged, with his laptop in front of him, and his tele leaning against the bedside table, hair pulled back and t-shirt hanging a little low around the neck, like it hasn't been washed in a while, and Andy loves him so much it hurts.

  
  


“Yeah?”

  
  


“Yeah, and, we were thinking, about, like.” He shrugs, and shuts his computer, pushing it to the side, and moving to the edge of the bed. “Like, if—maybe we didn't do another album, for a while.” The words come out, and Andy's entire world starts to end. 

  
  


His heart has to have actually skipped a beat, because it feels like he's just been punched in the chest, and his stomach starts doing something really unfortunate that feels like he might be about to puke, and Joe's getting up, and walking toward him, but he can barely register that, can barely understand what Joe's saying, something along the lines of _not permanently, just long enough that we can do our own things, for a while_ , and he might not be dying, but that sure is what it feels like. 

  
  


“No.” Andy manages, and Joe blinks, shaking his head. 

  
  


“No?” 

  
  


“No, we can't—no.” Joe's eyebrows furrow, which Andy knows without even really looking at him because that's what Joe _does_ when he's frustrated, and Andy knows he's frustrated because Andy's disagreeing with this very, very reasonable thing he's suggesting.

  
  


“Baby, this isn't— _working_ , you _know_ it's not working, you and Pete almost killed each other last week.” Joe's voice is firm, and certain, and he's thought this through, figured out what he's going to say beforehand and Andy wants to agree with him and give him what he wants but he _can't_. 

  
  


“It doesn't matter.” He grits out, and shakes his head. “It doesn't matter, we'll—we'll figure it out, we can't--”

  
  


“Andy--” 

  
  


“We just need time to get--”

  
  


“ _Andy_ \--” Joe's voice is getting louder but he doesn't stop. 

  
  


“Back into the swing of it and we'll be--”

  
  


“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” 

  
  


“Because if we stop doing the band you'll leave.” He blurts out, and Joe freezes. It's like the whole world is still, and silent, and tenser than guitar strings and Andy can't do this. It's been seven years, and in that time the only thing that's been constant for him has been this band, these people, this life, of touring, and living, and playing, and _Joe_ , and he can't live without it, he _can't_ _,_ because maybe the band isn't the only reason that he and Joe are together, but it's all they _know._

  
  


He's already opening the door, ready to run as fast and as far as he possibly can, but then Joe's hand is on it in front of him, slamming it shut, and Joe is right up in his space, their faces inches apart. 

  
  


“Look at me.” He hisses, and Andy closes his eyes, his chest heaving, and his eyes prickling with tears even as Joe reaches up, and frames his face with the hand not on the door, thumb grazing over his cheek and long fingers fitting easily around his jaw. “Andy, look at me.” 

  
  


Against his better judgement, he does, and Joe's right there, his eyes wide, and sure, and so blue they can't possibly be real, and for once, his pupils are normal-sized. He shakes his head, slowly. 

  
  


“I'm not going to leave you.” Every word is careful, and calculated, and thought-out, and Andy's chest clenches, tears starting to trickle down his cheeks as Joe's nose bumps his own, his face as drawn and as serious as it can possibly get. “We are more than this band, and I will love you even if I can never play music again, do you understand that?” 

  
  


He sniffs, softly, and fuck, he fucking hates crying, but Joe slides his other hand down and holds Andy's face, cradles it, like he's something precious, and kisses him, long, and slow, and soft. 

  
  


“I love you.” Joe murmurs, and bumps their noses together again, fingers sliding up into Andy's hair. “I love you, I promise, I love you.”

  
  


Andy can't breathe enough to say it back, but he figures Joe gets the memo.

  
  


** Decmber, 2010 **

  
  


Joe's hair is soft, and slightly damp under his fingers, and every time they kiss it sends fissures down Andy's spine, where he's pressed up against the soundboard, Joe's arms tight and firm where they're wrapped around his waist. 

  
  


“Keith's gonna be pissed when he gets back.” He manages, as Joe's lips slide down over his jaw onto his neck, biting a line down his throat. 

  
  


“Super pissed.” Joe murmurs, and hitches Andy up farther to grind down between his thighs. “Prolly kick us out of the band, stage a citizen's revolt. Break my arms and legs, maybe.” 

  
  


“Why not mine?” 

  
  


“Too cute.” It's growled into his collarbone like a promise, and Andy tilts his head back, and ignores the gnawing feeling in his stomach telling him they're going to get caught. 

  
  


“We're not teenagers. Why is this even happening.” It's true. They're not young, and desperate for love. They've been together for five years, by rights they're not supposed to even feel passionately about each other anymore.

  
  


But that's not how it feels when Joe's hands slide up under his t-shirt, splaying over his back like they belong there, and Andy can whine and conjecture all he wants but he's still rock hard in his jeans and twitching to get closer to Joe every second he can. 

  
  


They leap apart as the door opens and Andy manages to cross his legs in one smooth movement as Joe sits down in the seat in front of him. 

  
  


Rob peers suspiciously between them as he takes his seat and shakes his head. 

  
  


“You fucked on the soundboard didn't you?” 

  
  


“What? No.” Joe makes a disbelieving sound and crosses his arms over his chest. “Absolutely not.” 

  
  


  
  


** July, 2013 **

  
  


They're doing an interview for Fuse, and one of the questions is whether they prefer the studio, or the tour, and Andy and Pete answer their typical answer, of course, that tour is far superior to any other way of life because it _is_ , and Joe says something profound about how much he wishes he could be there at pivotal moments in music making in the studio, but Patrick is what really makes Andy flare up. 

  
  


Patrick waxes poetic for a full two minutes about how amazing it is to record and re-record the same thing until it works and how amazing it is being in the studio, and that would be fine, if it were anyone  _ but Patrick  _ saying it.

  
  


But Andy was there when they started making Folie, and Andy remembers Patrick throwing plates at Pete's head and punching Joe square in the jaw and being a fucking nightmare, and granted, that was the absolute height of Patrick's nightmarish studio tendencies, but he still snaps and shouts and rags on people whenever they record, and Andy's not having any of this bullshit.

  
  


“But what about if it doesn't work?” He asks, and watches Patrick jump a little, like he'd forgotten he was there. “On the tour you find out how it actually plays, in real time--”

  
  


“You go on the tour you find out how bad people smell.” Andy's chest starts to clench and he can feel his face getting red and he wants to fucking _slug_ Patrick right now, and Patrick's still talking but Andy can't help but talk over him. 

  
  


“In the studio you end up hearing the same track over, and over, and over, and it's like fuck _off_ \--” His shoulders are tense and his jaw isn't much better and he knows before he looks over that Joe's reaching for him, knuckles resting on his shoulder to get his attention. Andy looks over and Joe's eyebrows are raised, and his eyes are clear, and confident, and imploring as their gazes meet. 

  
  


And what he says aloud is something like 'what if we agree we like both', soft, off the mics, but the look on his face says something else.

  
  


_Not here. Not now._ Joe's eyebrows quirk a little, and his fingers linger on Andy's arm.  _Please?_

  
  


Andy swallows, and shrugs it off, mimes blowing Joe a kiss and lets them move on to the next question, but he's fundamentally aware that Joe's shifted just a little closer to him, and that knowledge is what really gets him through the rest of this fucking stupid interview.

  
  


**August 2014**

  
  


“I'm mad, but I love you, but I'm mad, okay?” Joe groans, and smooshes his face into his pillow. “I'm mad at you, but _god_ , I love you. Now—just—gimmie a minute.” 

  
  


His voice is rough, and tired, and Andy swallows thickly, and nods, the knot in his chest already starting to unwind.

  
  


“Okay.” He murmurs, and leans down, kisses Joe's shoulder before pushing himself up out of the bed. “I love you, too.” And with that, he leaves, closing the door on Joe's prone body on top of the comforter, stark black clothes against the green fabric. Joe needs space, when he's mad, he always has, and ten years ago it would have been a small, confined space, the little bus shower maybe, but right now it's just the space between himself and Andy, and Andy can give him that.

  
  


Ten years ago Andy would have been afraid that Joe would never stop being mad. Ten years ago Andy would have had some kind of small, Wentzian mental breakdown and spent the next hour or so envisioning every facet of a life without Joe.

  
  


But it's been ten years.

  
  


Plus, Andy sending Patrick Joe's demos without Joe's permission is absolutely something he's got every right to be pissed about. Joe already hates it when people fuck around on his computer, and he's got about as much pent up self esteem issues about Patrick hearing his riffs as a person can possibly have. Andy's not sorry, but Joe's still right to be mad.

  
  


He leaves the bus, and kicks off his flip flops, taking off at a steady jog around the parking lot of the venue with his feet bare. He runs better like that, anyway. Every slap of Andy's feet against the concrete is cathartic, the wind in his hair and the ache in his lungs from the cold air sends pulses of peace through his body, and by the time he slows down, he's gone around five times, and his feet ache.

  
  


It's more than worth it.

  
  


He's not sure how long it is before he stumbles back up onto their bus, but when he gets inside Joe's not in the back, anymore. He's sitting in the front lounge with his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped, like he's ready for a fight, and _god_ , Andy is not ready for a fight. 

  
  


“I can come back.” He's fighting with himself through every syllable, fighting the urge to reach out, and touch, to slide his fingers up into Joe's hair and crawl into his lap and hold him as close and as tight as he can, but Joe doesn't reach for him, so he stays still.

  
  


“No, it's—it's okay.” Joe's hair is still free and gel-less from his shower this morning, and when he looks up at Andy his curls fall over his forehead, and it's like Andy's twenty all over again, looking at a skinny kid with stars in his eyes and a gift for the guitar he's never seen before. He has to take a second before responding, because Joe never looks young, anymore, hasn't looked young in years, and he's only thirty, but he hasn't looked much like a kid since he turned twenty three.

  
  


Andy remembers when Joe _was_ young. Andy remembers watching a shirtless Joe leap into a pool that didn't belong to them in the middle of the night, laughing and pale in the moonlight with a smile like sunshine and a voice that Andy fell in love with from the first moment he heard it, lisping over Patrick's last name as they were introduced.

  
  


It's been a long, long time since Joe took his shirt off around other people, but that's a different thought for a different time, because Joe's reaching a hand out for him, curling his fingers around Andy's like they belong there, which they do. One tug, and Andy's on the couch next to him, pressing his side close against Joe's. He lets the warmth seep into him, into the weariness in his bones and the sweat still sticking to his skin, lets himself relax into Joe, because it's not even second nature, anymore. It's his first.

  
  


They're quiet, for a while, and Andy knows it's mostly for his benefit. Joe likes to talk. Joe's always liked to talk, and Andy's always loved to listen, but right now is a quiet moment, for both of them.

  
  


“Still mad?” Andy asks, and feels Joe's sigh against his shoulder, watches the way his chest rises and falls, eyes trained on the Joy Division t-shirt Pete got him for christmas three years ago.

  
  


“No.” He groans, and Andy feels lips ghost over his forehead, and the press of Joe's nose into his hair. “I get it.”

  
  


Andy nods, and tilts his head, grazing a kiss over Joe's cheek.

  
  


“Love you.” He whispers, and Joe ducks down, catching Andy's mouth with his own, warm, and wet, and perfect.

  
  


“Love you, too.”

 


End file.
